Writer with a Working Problem

I am a writer and a working man. This season of my life I drive a twelve hour shift on a bus. I have no Ph.D's or Master Degrees. I have never founded a foundation that was not made of cinder blocks or concrete, the best kind in my opinion. Which is to say I am a blue collar worker and writer. What I have to say is connected to the earth. What I write is born from bloody knuckles and sweaty days spent in the sun or cold hours below zero trying to stay warm.
I came across a gold mining camp hidden within a gorgeous and heavenly valley of the Sierra Nevada. Emblazoned on a tall wooden sign were these words:
WE ARE A DRINKING CAMP WITH A MINING PROBLEM
Just so. I am a writing man with a working problem.
Yesterday I received a letter from Jonathan Galassi, president and publisher of Farrar, Straus & Giroux. He read the first fifty pages of my novel, The Goldfinder, and said he found the setting and premise "made for interesting historical fiction" and said "many of the passages are lyrical and powerful", but that overall the writing was inconsistent. I have received three such letters from The Gods Who Rule the Writing World. It's hard to be consistent when you work twelve hours on the streets--but that is the job of a working writer.
Now I must find a way to return to that imaginary world where I am almost someone, where I am in love with my mind pulsing through my fingertips.